


Chocolates and Flowers

by Wallwalker



Category: Mass Effect 2 - Fandom
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Older Character, Pre-Canon, Romance, Solo Fantasy, Vanilla Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallwalker/pseuds/Wallwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda doesn't talk about her fantasies very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chocolates and Flowers

Miranda doesn't talk about her fantasies much, since she knows that most people won't understand them. They'll think she secretly wants to be that quiet, submissive type that humanity would have idealized a few centuries ago, and that simply isn't her style. She wants to be treated like what she is, a powerful and intelligent woman who isn't to be trifled with. There aren't many men (or women, for that matter) who she would honestly call her equal, and she sure as hell wouldn't let them forget that just because she happened to be in some sort of relationship with them.

And it isn't that she doesn't enjoy her work with Cerberus, or being in charge of the Lazarus Cell. She's worked hard to be recognized on her own merits, after all; gaining the Illusive Man's attention had not been an easy task. And being given control over what could be the most important project in the history of humanity is intoxicating, to say the least.

It's not that she doesn't think her life is good. She just likes to dream about something else, once in a while. It's just a fantasy, and she doesn't believe that fantasies are wrong. Impractical, yes, but only if taken too far. Certainly not wrong.

\---

Signing up for that stupid dating website had been a terrible mistake. Melodramatic? Yes. That makes it no less true, she thinks, staring at her old chat logs.

She had hoped to be able to get the fantasy out of her system there. She had wanted to have actual conversations, to maybe have a few romantic encounters, the sorts of things that normal people had. People who didn't have to live on an uncharted space station, who didn't spend almost every waking hour staring at a corpse and trying to put it back together again. People who didn't have to keep their secrets so close to their chest, because if anyone found out who she was they would probably turn her in out of fear. Maybe arrange a few honest-to-goodness dates, meet a man who would bring her flowers, take her out to dinner.

But when the time had come, she hadn't been able to go through with it. It had been all business, asking for medical records and demanding perfection, sending them the addresses of safe apartments and then logging off without another word. She'd met a few of them, had even slept with one or two - she hadn't been sure about the damage to her body yet, and so she'd still hoped. But even those hadn't been romantic. They had been more like business transactions, without the exchange of money involved. She'd even demanded that they negotiate their rights over the unborn child, should it be conceived.

None of them had ever tried to contact her again. Just as well, she thinks, although there is undeniably a twinge of rejection in the thought; it might be just what she's been looking for, really, to have one of them send her a message out of the blue, telling her that he misses her and wants to see her again. The knowledge that she'd made that sort of impression on a man... but it's never happened, and it probably never will.

She likes to tell herself that it hadn't just been her ambivalance. None of those men had been good enough, had they? Yes, some of them had been genetically perfect and healthy, worthy of siring her child, but none of them were good enough to even play-act sharing any part of her life with. She had tried to see their faces in her fantasy, to think of them as that ideal romantic, the one who would buy her the kind of chocolates she likes and give her dark purple orchids, take her to romantic dinners for two and tell her how beautiful she is. But it never works; she just had no desire to see them in that way, reality or not.

\---

The man in her romantic fantasies usually has no face, by her own design. She doesn't want to see what he looks like, because it doesn't matter. She does the same with his voice; when he speaks it sounds like no one in particular, or if it does it's some half-remembered vid star she'd never actually cared for.

This isn't the same as her liasons on the dating site; those turned out to be attempts to meet a need that would never be met, and she had done her best to come to terms with that, mostly. Her fantasies used to include that, as well - she and her partner living together on a lovely garden world colony, watching their daughter playing gleefully in a field of flowers, throwing handfuls of petals in the air and cheering loudly as her parents stood and watched and smiled, hand in hand. But after that damned letter had arrived from the medical center, she hadn't been able to think about it, not even in her fantasies. Not without tears prickling in the corners of her eyes, and those were the absolute _last_ things that she ever wanted any of her subordinates to see. The ability to show weakness is a luxury that she has never had.

That's why Miranda has stopped imagining domestic scenes - the homestead on a human colony world, the little girl growing up surrounded by as many green and good things as her parents could find for her, the blissful moments that she had never really experienced but that she imagined most families must have sometimes. But the other fantasies - the romances, the gifts, the slow courtships and the quiet, loving moments, - those are safe. Nothing can take them away from her.

She had been on the station for two months before she'd slipped for the first time. She doesn't remember exactly what she had been doing, only that it had been especially difficult that day - too many complications, too many idiotic delays, too many obvious power plays by Wilson for one afternoon. She had been resting in the privacy of her quarters - she had been one of the very few people to have private quarters on the station, and she knew that some of the others had complained behind her back. But Miranda hadn't cared. She'd earned her privacy.

Days like that would've destroyed her, if she had allowed it. The stress had been unbearable. It was only reasonable that she relieve it.

It had been a normal enough fantasy, at first. Miranda and her nameless, faceless partner, taking a long, slow walk through some grand cathedral - somewhere on Earth, she supposed, although there were few historical monuments that would still be that grand, and the ones that were tended to be crowded with curious patrons, humans and aliens alike. But this was her fantasy, and if she wanted to be alone in this place, then she damn well would be.

They walked hand-in-hand, and Miranda felt, around her neck, the weight of the diamond pendant that he had just given her. Real diamond, she thought with satisfaction, nothing fake about it, and both it and the silver had been mined from the stones of Earth. It was exactly what she'd wanted, and it suited her well, offset her pale skin and black hair and her light red sundress. Her partner - handsome and charming in a neat linen suit - had told her that he would give her nothing but the best. Nothing but the best for the best, he said, and Miranda had felt warm all over in ways that had little enough to do with what she was doing.

In her fantasy, she had closed her eyes before turning to kiss him - she always did, so that she would not have to imagine his face. He had kissed her back, and his arms had been strong around her - strong and possessive in a way that most of her imaginary liasons were not, as if he would never let her go.

She could not say what had possessed her to pull away, or to open her eyes. But when she did - when she could think again - she had curled up in her bed, puzzled into silence. She had _known_ that face, had spoken with him daily for months. His expression had been softer and kinder than she had ever seen before, or even imagined, and the implants in his eyes had gleamed as he had looked into hers.

No, this would not do. This would not do at all.

\---

Fantasies, in and of themselves, are harmless, and can even be therapeutic if used properly. That was what Miranda had believed for most of her life, and she still believed it. But she had been very careful to note that there were exceptions to that rule. Fantasies had to be treated with care. They had to be separate from reality. Fantasing about people that she knew and worked with were a horrible idea. Fantasies about the man who funded her projects - the man who was in charge of her entire organization - were even worse.

Miranda keeps telling herself that. But she can't deny that the fantasy is going outside of the neat little boundaries that she had set for it in the beginning. And if she is going to be honest with herself, she likes it that way.

It's just a thought, she tells herself when she feels uncomfortable. It isn't really _him._ It's just another fantasy, just another thing that she needs to relieve the stress of this job. Besides, if there's someone that she could ever respect more than the Illusive Man, it's no one she's ever met.

She wonders, briefly, how old he actually is; she hasn't been able to find anything on him, not even a real name. All she knows is what she has read in his manifesto - the one that he claims to have written, and she doesn't doubt it, having spoken to him for hours about their shared beliefs. He's still fit and healthy, but she knows that he isn't a young man, anymore, with his silver hair and the lines in his face; he's old enough to be her father, if not older.

Maybe that would bother other women. But Miranda has spent hours speaking with him about their beliefs. He's chosen her, made her one of the few who answers to no one but him. He listens to her, respects her. If there was ever more that she has wanted from a partner, she can't imagine what it would be.

The part of her that had been afraid before is still there, whispering warnings in her mind. But she does her best to ignore it. She just has to stay professional, she tells herself. She's good at that.

\---

Six months after the project began in earnest, Miranda is on a small Cerberus vessel, just completing its relay jump to the Pax system. She isn't paying too much attention to the pilot and minimal crew, who are all occupied by the usual post-jump protocol. Mostly, she's preoccupied with her attempts to not let her annoyance show.

Why is she even here? She's asked herself that question several times now, and the only answer that she has is that she's there because the Illusive Man asked her to give a small matter her personal attention. But he refused to give her a reason, even though they both know that a small group of functionaries could easily oversee a normal trade, and she did not press; she's willing to take this on faith, at least. She's mostly annoyed that he is _requiring_ her to take this on faith. Hasn't she shown more loyalty than that?

Of course she has, she reminds herself with a sigh. But the Illusive Man isn't a fool. He must have some reason to want to be especially cautious with this deal, or else he wouldn't send her personally. And at the moment, Shepard's condition is stable, at least; they've finally made some headway in regenerating the body's dead tissue, and their work with a preliminary neural net looks very promising. The facility will be able to run for a few days without her, and they both know that, too.

Dealing with Noverian bureaucracy was never pleasant, but she smiles her way through that too, bluffing and pushing at the right moments. The new administrative secretary, a nervous-looking asari who doesn't look nearly old or experienced enough to hold a job like this for long, doesn't argue with her too much, and Miranda wonders how she got the job in the first place. Nepotism, maybe. Or maybe she wasn't always this nervous; she has little doubt that they know she's with Cerberus. They always do their research, this colony.

Finally the asari clears the shipment, and tells her that she can go and inspect the medical supplies herself, if she wishes - and yes, Miranda does wish to do so, very much. She doesn't think that the inspection will be necessary, but it would at least justify her trip if she _did_ happen to find something wrong.

She's going through the third of four lots when she finds the oddity that she was hoping for, but it was nothing like what she expected. All that she can do when she first sees it is stare, puzzled, at the square box, its blank surface showing no sign of what is inside of it, only what appears to be a biometric thumbprint scanner. Well, those can be defeated easily enough given enough time, she thinks, and puts it aside.

The second box she finds in the last lot, this one longer and thinner than the other, and sealed with the same scanner-based technology. She sets it aside as well, and ponders them both. Proper procedure would be to have them both destroyed in a secure place, where any toxic or virulent compounds within them couldn't harm anyone. Taking them back with her would be against all regulations.

She knows all of this. But there's something nagging at her - this entire situation feels like a setup, except that she knows it can't be. The Illusive Man would never set her up. She's far too valuable to him, isn't she?

She sighes and reaches for one of the boxes, the square box. She turns it in her hands, examines it again, finding nothing. Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she presses her thumb against the biometric scanner, not expecting anything to happen.

The scanner beeps, and flashes green. She hears the seals on the box release, and it slides open.

Miranda can barely believe her eyes as she stares at the smaller, heart-shaped box, decorated with a fancy red ribbon bow. It isn't the one that she's dreamed of receiving for years - that one is never red, and is usually tied with a silver bow - but it's very close, right down to the small envelope sitting on top of it. A real envelope, not a datapad or a digital display - she reaches down to brush it with her fingertips, feels the roughness of the paper.

She keeps her hands steady with effort as she opens the envelope and pulls out a small card, printed with a silver heart. She opens it, and the penmanship inside is small and neat.

>   
> _Miranda,_
> 
>  _I hope that this gesture causes no offense. I know that the last year has been difficult, and I wanted to give you a token of my appreciation. I'm afraid, however, that other gestures will have to wait until the current situation is settled. I'm sure you understand the gravity of our situation and the importance of our work._
> 
>  _Your work has been exemplary, Miranda. You've more than earned this._

There is no signature on the note, but there doesn't have to be. Even if Miranda could have doubted who it was from, she could smell the faint lingering traces of tobacco smoke - real tobacco, Earth-grown, not the vat-grown swill that was shipped across the galaxy for people who only wanted the nicotine hit. She puts the card back down, opens the heart-shaped box, and sees exactly what she expected - neat rows of chocolates, dark and light alike, arranged neatly in the package.

She presses her thumb against the scanner on the other box a little too quickly. The seal opens again, and she pulls it open almost before it could open itself. She can feel the faint lingering chill of climate control in the box as she pulls out its contents - a bouquet of orchids, dark purple marked with yellow, and as fresh as the day they had been cut.

She stares at them long enough that one of her men calls her over her comm link, asking if everything is all right. It takes her a moment to answer, because she honestly isn't sure.

\---

Miranda takes the chocolates and flowers aboard the ship on her own person, hidden in a parcel she picks up from one of the merchants, and no one questions her. It would not have been the first time that Miranda had picked up something for herself on one of these trips, and as long as she didn't interfere with any of Cerberus's shipments, no one objected.

She tells herself that it's a coincidence. There was no way that the Illusive Man could have known, right? Maybe it was intended as an innocent gesture. But the orchids are exactly the shade she loves, deep purple instead of lavender. And the chocolates are sublime, obviously made by humans, and just as obviously custom-made. She's eaten several so far, from different places in the box, and every single one of them has been to her tastes, the same truffles and caramels and nougats she loved so much as a child.

Well, she tells herself again, that could be coincidence, or good research. Her tastes hadn't changed much since she had been growing up in her father's house, and she's sure that the information is for sale somewhere. But... how had he _known?_ She hadn't breathed a word of _that_ particular fantasy to anyone, had she? Certainly not since joining up with Cerberus, if at all.

Did he know about all of it?

Those were questions that she couldn't answer, though. And when she saw the Illusive Man again he said nothing about it; their conversations were all business, just as they had been before. That comforts her, at least; she knows how to hold those sorts of conversations.

But she can't put them from her mind entirely. The chocolates, the orchids, the note... she keeps some trace of all of them. The box and a single preserved flower are kept in her quarters, in a place that no one but her would know, along with the note. She doesn't take them out, except when she knows that no one will notice if she disables the recording devices in her room for a little while.

Her fantasies haven't changed, of course; if anything, they've grown more pronounced. And underscoring them all is a curious thought - what would happen if she confronted him about this, someday after all of this was done? Would he admit to it? Would other gestures in fact be waiting for her at the end of this?

It was, at the very least, a pleasant addition to her make-believe world. At most... well. It would be foolish to make too much of it, she tells herself. This is just the sort of thing she had told herself to avoid long ago, the mixing of fantasy and reality that would not do anyone any service.

But she still can't bring herself to throw them away.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for kink_bingo, for a Vanilla Kink square - which I wasn't sure what to do with, until I replayed LotSB and remembered about Miranda's brief subscription to a dating service. Which she didn't seem to use to do anything romantic, but... well, it got the thought started. (The copy of "Men Are From Omega, Women Are From Illium" had something to do with it as well.)


End file.
